


in the dark of the night

by silverscream



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Male POV, PWP, Pwp at its finest, also brandy, but shhhh, i don't take myself seriously, post battle high, these two don't, who does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9264389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverscream/pseuds/silverscream
Summary: Brandy, near-death experiences and witches are by no means things Fenrys should ever mix in good conscience.





	

Brandy, near-death experiences and witches are by no means things Fenrys should ever mix in good conscience.

The reality of it is slightly different though, as he finds himself sitting on the stairway of a full inn, the warriors downstairs just as battle-worn as him, just as aching for relief, for safety, for certainty, either in each other’s arms, or at the bottom of a brandy glass.

Still, emptying bottles with an Ironteeth witch in the wee hours of the night after a bloody battle is not the smartest thing he has ever done.

  
Not that the grin plastered on Asterin Blackbeak’s flushed face would make him struggle to act smartly.

In fact, the heat gathering in his belly is the exact opposite of “smart”.

But what do smarts mean when the witch snorts warmly, her breath fanning against his cheek as he speaks and drinks.

  
“What is it with you and wanting, fae?” she croons, her voice deep with drink and warm with something that sears his insides, “you’d say you were born starving.”

He chuckles, finding her gaze and holding it, before reaching for the brandy bottle in her hand.

“Pots and kettles, Blackbeak, that’s pots and kettles coming from you,” he dares.

“Oh?” she challenges, her smile turning feral. Man-eater.

Later, he would like to tell himself it had been a calculated risk he was taking, but really, it was no such thing, no. It was rather akin to plunging blindly into a sea and hoping to heaven and hell the sharks won’t bite.

Rather the sharks than those gleaming iron teeth of hers, enticing as they may be.

Fenrys is not calculated, not now, not in the way that should count. He is calculated in the faint touch up her hand, tracing a blue vein, calculated in the gaze he drops to her mouth and the hoarse whisper of his voice

“You want nothing more than I do,” a secret sort of smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, “Freedom to roam and fight and fuck your way through immortality.”

His voice is rough and almost silent in comparison to the rowdy hollering in the tavern below.

“How can you know what I want?” she says breathlessly, and yet it sounds less like a question, and more like an invitation. “You don’t know me.”

“True, I don’t.” he allows, answering her grin with one of his own, “I’d like to, though.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” she whispers wickedly. May it be him, may it be the brandy, but is she closer, yes, she seems to be closer, gods, he could count the freckles on the bridge of her nose, a tiny scar on the side of her face, a splatter of blood on her ear from the day’s battle, and it all makes her a dozen times more tempting.

“Keep telling that to yourself at night, witch.”

She is closer, gods damn him, she comes closer and whispers

“Is there anything else I should whisper in my pillow in the wee hours of the morning, pup?”

“My name,” he answers, bumping his nose to hers playfully, “and mayhaps a sweet plea or two.”

  
A snarl curls her nose and bares her teeth as she looks up at him. Sharp iron and soft flesh all make up a mouth Fenrys doesn’t even try looking away from.

“Oh, I like you,” he breathes against her lips, the tip of her pink tongue wetting her raw lower lip. His eyes come up to hers, black and black and black, with specks of gold here and there, like little shards of stars in a moonless night.

A smirk tugs at his lips when he notices that a sort of darkness engulfs the gold in her eyes, her warm breath close enough to smell, sweet like cinnamon and honey, and he doesn’t tear his gaze from hers as he ducks his head and pulls that raw lip between his teeth.

Asterin Blackbeak hisses in return, her hands fisting in his doublet, pointed nails scratching against his abdomen. She angles her neck, raising her face to his and deepens their kiss, her tongue sliding past his teeth and meeting his.

  
The corridor on the first level of their little inn is narrow and cozy, so it’s not much strength Asterin needs to push him off her so that his back slams in the opposite wall. Fenrys opens his eyes in confusion. Gods. His chest is heaving, and his pants are suddenly feeling tight. His mouth opens and closes like a fish’s, but the witch doesn’t fare much better, hair wild in its braided coils and eyes bright.

He has little time to wonder about them before she pounces him, the force she puts into it enough to make the wooden wall creek painfully at his back.

Her hands are around his throat, then up, scratching the shadow of scruff on his jaw, or tangled in his hair. The witch’s hips pin his and instinctively, Fenrys glides his palms down her torso, feeling full curves and hard flesh through her shirts, around her waist and to the small of her back.

She arches when his tongue enters her mouth and his hands finally find purchase, sprawled against the generous slope of her arse. His chuckles are swallowed up by her mouth, they maybe turn into a moan. Particularly loud laughter makes the inn nearly tremble in its hinges and the collective tremour downstairs only makes the hushed sounds escaping the witch’s round mouth that much sweeter.

Fenrys reaches down, grabbing the backs of the thighs and pulls her flush to him, her padded flying leathers smooth against the scratchy wool of his coat. Daggers clang and he nearly cuts his fingers on one strapped to her inner thigh in a hidden pocket. Nevertheless, he lifts her up and her legs come instinctively around his hips, their grip like a vice, and he turns them around, smashing her against the nearest door, the wood groaning.

Her fingers find purchase on the open neck of his coat, pulling, ripping at it, with no care whatsoever to buttons or strings.

“Inside,” she whispers hoarsely to his lips, and Fenrys takes the advantage to press warm, open kisses to the fine line of her jaw until he reaches the shell of her ear and nibbles on it.

“We’re getting there alright, pet,” he says in her ear, hands dancing merrily on her torso, untangling the laces holding her jacket, open at the neck, much like his.

“No, you fool,” she throws her head back when he finds a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear, “the door. Open the door. It’s mine.”

“Of course it is,” he teases, fumbling for the door knob while simultaneously grinding against her heat, the witch’s legs wide open around him, enveloping him tightly.

She moans when he pushes against her once more, and he snakes a hand underneath her coat, finding a warm breast and palming it.

Gods, they’re rutting against each other like a pair of hares, he can’t help but think when he does indeed manage to open the damn door. Of course they are, and there’s not much to complain about, in Fenrys’s humble opinion, especially not when the witch breathes a particularly low moan, which goes straight to his cock.

Once they go past the door, Fenrys presses her flat against it, keeping her in place with his body. Not relenting his assault on her mouth -gods, that mouth should be illegal, the grins and smiles and sounds she makes are all so not good for his brain - he reaches behind him, where her ankles cross at the small of his back, and mindlessly tugs on the laces of her boots, intent on properly undressing her. This is probably the fault of the ample amount of brandy he’s consumed tonight, and now that he thinks of it, her hair does look a bit like brandy in the fire light. A tiny bit.

  
He’s nipping the tendons of her neck, drunk on the feeling of her nails scraping against his scalp, groaning in her ear and goading a response from her. The motion of her hips is divine, and he rolls his hips into her as an answer when he finally succeeds in divesting her of her boots. Her feet are cold, but her toes curl and her heels dig into his backside as he drags his hands along the length of her legs: the curve of her calves and the sinful flesh of her thighs, and of course, the heat between them.

He finds the buckle of her belt at the same time she pushes his doublet off his shoulders, one of her nails ripping his shirt in the haste.

  
Fenrys tugs with mindless abandon at her pants, a voice in the back of his mind urging him to be careful of whatever weapons she has hidden there. Nonetheless, he is painfully hard and her moans as he bites on the soft shell of her ear do not help at all, and why the everloving fuck is he still dressed- and finally, the damned pants are off and he slides a hand between her legs, feeling for the heat and wetness of her and she arches off the door when he curls his fingers inside her.

By the time he kicks off his own boots as well, the nifty witch has already stripped him of his shirt and the hunting knife strapped under it, and she is raking her nails, blessedly not the iron ones, but still sharp enough by normal standards, down his abdomen, definitely not helping relieving the tension inside him.

  
Locking her feet around him, Asterin bounces off the door, and Fenrys struggles to keep his balance in front of her assault.

A groan tears off his lips when the backs of his legs hit the bed and he falls in the sheets and the furs on it, basking in her intoxicating scent.

  
He tugs her shirt over her head and she is exquisite, golden skin and golden hair, curling around her ears and falling in her eyes as she bends to take his mouth. His hands play on her ribs and spine, taut flesh and strong bone, until they reach her arse and hips, wide and becoming and soft.

He shimmies his hips enough for her to pull his breeches off, and she brushes against his length, and gods, the moan he lets out is positively wanton.

The effect it has on the witch is painfully obvious, the flush spreads beyond her cheeks, down her neck and to her full breasts, and Fenrys can’t help but rise up and press his mouth to one of them, all teeth and tongue, while he cups the other, and the witch lets her head fall back, her dark eyes rolling into the back of it.

  
The scars on her abdomen are large and broad, the cursed mark a reminder of the cruelty she has faced, the cruelty she has braved, the cruelty she has survived, and there is something in Fenrys’s chest that swells at the thought of her strength. It’s some sort of admiration, a kinship and a tether between them, which comes with knowing they’ve both fucked the odds and survived, and that is maybe why Fenrys hasn’t been able to take this witch out of his mind for the past weeks, it’s this understanding between them that has prompted him to want her so, so badly, and his heart beats faster and louder because of that.

He slides against her slick warmth, poised at her entrance and when he is finally inside, it feels glorious and unending and painful all at the same time and the witch twists her hips above him sinuously. Fenrys is quite certain his heart will burst and really, buried deep in Asterin Blackbeak, pressing kisses to her freckled breast and drinking in her moans does not seem like the worst way to go.

He lifts his hips, slamming in her and she nearly screams, hand fisting in his braid and mouth a delicious snarl against his.

She looks into his eyes, a pool of liquid darkness seeing through to the very bottom of his soul and

  
“Say my name, _pup_.” she whispers softly, so softly he almost misses it. Almost.

He finds himself smirking, kissing her lips softly, quickly as they move against each other.

“Witches first, m'dear,” he goads her for his own entertainment, and, judging by the way the tightens around him, it works for her as well

  
“I asked you first.”

She keeps his hands above his head, tangling their fingers, a blissful smile on her face, and her movement becomes uncoordinated, feral, her breathing uneven as he slides into her, again and again, and he can tell she’s nearing completion.

“I asked you second,” she laughs at this, good, it’s good that she can laugh, and it turns into a moan as he bites the nook where her shoulder meets her neck, rolling his tongue over the sore flesh afterwards.

What he doesn’t expect is her bearing down on him with new strength, pressing her breasts to his chest, and paying him back in kind

“Ahhhh,” he closes his eyes against the bliss and the pain of her mouth on his collarbone, the flesh turning angry red and royal purple under her ministrations.

“Now that’s the start,” she pants, right in his ear.

“Ohhh, it is,” he moans, turning his head to the side, facing her, their faces touching and he struggles to focus his eyes enough to meet hers, just as hazy and black as the deepest night, and he holds her gaze as he whispers, “ _Asterin_ ”

She laughs, the wretched witch, and it is a victory for the both of them, “Ah-” a broken sound which nearly makes him come, “now- was - that -so” - a challenge as he raises himself into a sitting position, slamming into her, and gods, gods, he feels her starting to come undone,“ _ah_! -hard?”

It’s heaven, it’s merciful heaven and he moves through her climax, and he is close, so very close, drowning in her glorious sounds, and she pushed him back into the mattress, riding him madly, and he can’t tell what’s louder, the creaking of the bed or his own moans as she takes his open mouth with hers, tongue sinfully gliding against his and he wants to goad her, wants to make her giggle and groan and roll her eyes and he winks conspiratorially,

“There’s only one hard thing in this room, hon,” when-

_Crraaaaaackkk_

  
They both look up at the same time, and they both yelp at the same time as the mattress falls to the floor under them, and the canopy collapses above their heads, plunging them into darkness.

“Well,” she says, devoid of tone, “it’s _definitely_ not the bed post.”

Hysterical laughter is all Fenrys is capable of at the moment. Asterin, too, it would seem.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, the asterin/fenrys plot-less one shot i started writing some months ago and then found today in my drafts.anyways, i hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> cheers


End file.
